“Curious indeed…,” muttered Conleth to himself. He pulled two flint-rings off his own fingers and handed them to Fionn. “Here, show me that you are ready. I fear they may not fit.”
He’s right about that, said Sir Bearach. Those little things would never fit me.
Fionn placed both rings on the middle and fourth finger of his own hand. The movement immediately felt strange, for he had never worn flint-rings on his left hand. He attempted to click them together—something that would have once come as easily as breathing—but he failed to produce a spark. Again, he tried, and again, until fatigue began to set into his wrist.
Conleth looked on without a word. Fionn was relieved at this much; anything the old man could say now would only frustrate him further.
Come on, he told himself, flicking his wrist again. It’s the same as before, but with the fingers facing the other way. Why can’t I—
A spark appeared in mid-air as the rings successfully rubbed off one another for the first time. It had disappeared before Fionn could grab it, but this did not deter him.
Again, said Sir Bearach. You had it there!
Fionn couldn’t help but smirk. If he hadn’t known better, he supposed that the knight was rooting for him.
With more confidence than before, Fionn raised his left hand and brought the flint-rings together. When the spark appeared, he searched inward, pulling at the power of his soul.
The spark immediately burst into a ball of flame. Fionn tugged at the fire flaring in his own heart, and adjusted the ball’s heat, decreasing it to not burn the surroundings. He focused on the ball, enclosing both his over-sized and under-sized hands around it, and moulding it between his fingers.
He turned his attention back to the power of his soul, fuelling the embers in his heart, which in turn strengthened the fire in his hands. The flames around him expanded and enveloped his whole body, but they burned nothing he did not command them to.
For the first time in weeks, Fionn felt like there was a soul inside him. Its power fed the flames, the flames fed his confidence, and the fire in his heart flared with might. His whole life, he had felt the power of his soul that way, like flames inside his chest. When it came time to choose a discipline back in the Academy, the School of Pyromancy made the most sense.
But things were different now. No, not only was it the rings on his left hand, or the massive arm attached to his right shoulder, but there was something else inside. He turned his focus away from the flames, and looked inward, more closely than he had before. The fire in his heart was there as it had always been, but it was no longer alone. No, beside it, there was something else. Another spark that had yet to be touched.
“I’ve seen enough,” cut in Conleth, suddenly.
Fionn immediately extinguished the flame. It felt like an eternity since he first clicked his fingers together. He had almost forgotten where he was standing.
“So,” said Fionn. “Does this mean I am ready?”
Conleth let out a laugh. “Sure, you’re ready to start, but I can’t promise anything beyond that. Give me a moment….”
He disappeared from the kitchen, leaving Fionn with the hundreds of books littering the floor. He was no stranger to tomes written about magic or history, but he didn’t recognise any of the texts of the floor.
One book did catch his eye, however. The book that Conleth had been reading was left discarded on the floor beside the stool. Fionn walked over to get a closer look. When he did, he chuckled softly to himself.
What’s so funny? asked Sir Bearach, his voice a little more irate than normal.
This book, said Fionn, bending down to pick it up. It was bound in black leather, with tiny, golden letters written across the spine, as if the scholar who had made manuscript was ashamed of its contents. ‘Between Penance and Sin: a study of Simian Biology, by King Eoghain I, third incarnate.’ Have you heard of King Eoghain?
I have not, said Sir Bearach. If he was the third incarnate of Seletoth, he died long before I was born.
That’s right, said Fionn. He ruled during the Fall of Sin, some three hundred years ago, but he hated Simians long before they defied the gods. He fancied himself a bit of a scholar, and he attempted to explain why Simians are the way they are, based on their physiology. His own prejudices came out in his writings. Now he’s remembered as a bigot and a fool.
Interesting, said Sir Bearach. Why would an old mage living alone in a city full of Simians be reading such a text?
Before he had a chance to response, Conleth the Red returned, a tome as large as himself clutched tightly against his chest.
“Take this,” he wheezed, forcing the book into Fionn’s hands. “Your parlour tricks with fire won’t make you a great mage. Studying the right material, this material, will.”
Fionn took the tome in his hands and leafed through it. Numbers and symbols flashed by his eyes, with barely a full word in sight. Some figures he recognised, but most he had never seen before.
“Gods above and below, what is this?” he asked, not attempting to hide the shock in his voice. “This is… mathematics. Sums and equations, like those studied by Simian engineers.”
“And studied by Firemasters,” said Conleth, curtly. “Any child descended from the Firstborn can learn to use magic. Any fool who can afford tuition and four years of their life can study in the Academy. But you came here because you want more. The path before you is not as simple as the one you left behind.”
The Firemaster raised a pale, crooked finger and pointed to one of the pages before Fionn.
“Mastering the School of Pyromancy is easy. Even children can do it. But if you want to master fire itself, then you need to understand it. You need to blur the lines between your soul and the flames.”
“Where does this come into it?” asked Fionn, holding the book before the old mage.
“The Simians are not the only ones to use mathematics to study the world. This volume covers everything a trainee Firemaster needs to know about the nature of fire and the energies that dictate its movement through the air. You are adept at manipulating the flames, but can you command their heat? How much does it take to turn wood to ash? To turn water to steam? To melt iron and stone? These are things you must learn to calculate before they can be attempted and mastered. These equations must fill your mind and possess your soul. Ranach’s Twelve Theorems of Heat Transfer must be on the tip of your tongue at all times, as familiar as your own name.”
Fionn glanced down at the textbook.
“I am to read all this? Over the course of my year here?”
“No,” said Conleth, removing the glasses from his face. No longer magnified by the thick lenses, his eyes now seemed like little black beads. “You must memorize it, cover to cover, and be capable of producing it blind within twelve moons.”
You were right, said Sir Bearach. He’s mad. The Academy left him alone too long, and he’s been driven insane by the solitude. We should leave. We better—
“I’ll do it,” said Fionn. He closed the book and tucked it under his massive arm. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”
Chapter 11:
The Beggar’s Flame
